Opalescence
Page 33
“WHY?” Tom shouted into the air. His question came back to him as a series of abrupt echoes, voice ricocheting off huge slabs of granite half a mile away.
Tom looked up. The ridge he was on continued around both sides of the canyon, but then each also dropped eventually into the chasm. Past it was more mountain. Now he seriously considered going back, but when he looked to the bottom, through the mists of the waterfall and paralleling the rushing river it became, he thought he could make out a narrow clearing, a trail that twisted around to the right and possibly out to the plains beyond. And, in fact, when he looked horizontally through the trees southwestward, he believed he could see the large embayment.
He considered the options again. If they went back, there was nothing to guarantee that they wouldn’t meet the same or other issues farther on, things he hadn’t seen from his angle, other chasms, other pitfalls. Tom sighed. Down it was then, to the left, through the oaks and pines.
First, though, they had to get over that river. Tom spotted a broad, fallen tree, and like their previous crossing, it would be their bridge. The water, calm here at the top, made this crossing painless. Then it was an eighth mile walk to the point of descent. They did it in five minutes, continually scanning their chosen path for the best entry site. Another five minutes, and they were at the clearest section. The way was still occluded by trees, and it was steep, Tom worried.
He looked around for a walking stick, something to help keep him from falling forward, and found one in a bare, narrow branch of about the right length lying on the ground. With his knife, he whittled the end to a point so as to penetrate the leafy mass and bite into the soil, thus maintaining his balance.
He glanced around again, hoping that this spot was their best choice. Well, he thought at last, there’s no way around it, I’ve stalled long enough. Might as well get on with it.
“Probably going to take a while,” he said to Little. “Are you ready?” His hiking companion stared at him, mouth closed, waiting for the word. “Then let’s go,” he said. Tom set one foot shakily in front of the other on a carpet of oak leaves and pine needles, simultaneously resting heavily upon his staff. In a bit, he was descending sideways, staff, foot, foot — staff, foot, foot. Little, being on four feet, wasn’t having any problem at all and jounced ahead, then back again. This is going to take all day, at this rate, Tom thought. He almost slipped a couple of times. It was amazing how slick oak leaves on a steep bank were. Don’t fall.
He fell, stick hurtling out of his hand, high and away, and instantly was sliding, feet first, down the hill. In a second, he was flying.
“WHOA!” Tom yelled out, afraid. He tried to stop himself, but could not, his momentum too great. Then, with the pressure on his heels, he felt himself begin to lift forwards, threatening to hurl him head first. Instinctively, he tried to lay, luge style, on his back. He’d forgot about the sleeping bag. It disengaged and bounced by him down the hill. “OH, YEAH!” Tom shouted, quickly lying back. That increased his velocity. There was a tree rapidly coming his way. He was going to slam into it. Innately, Tom, legs straight, feet held stiffly together, moved them to the right and he swerved out of the way. Easily. Relief washed through him, but, all too soon, there was another. This time he moved his legs to the left and again he was around the tree. Hope washed through him.
He was fairly hurtling along now, Little racing beside, barking excitedly. Around trees and down straightaways he continued. When he saw a large obstacle from a distance, like a boulder, he moved in time to avoid it. I must be going twenty, thirty miles an hour, Tom thought jubilantly. Still, there was an edge of fear at his speed. He looked back and saw that he had already come quite a distance. Now he had passed Little, who, dodging and jumping trees, was struggling to stay with him. He tried to break by jamming his feet harder into the ground, but that threatened to upend him and he gave it up.
“Come on, Little!” he yelled, “Keep up!” She barked in return. A deer, startled, jumped out of his path. Quail exploded noisily from some low-growing manzanita. Then he plowed through a monster pile of leaves. Still, he flew.
Tom was halfway now and tearing down the hillside. He looked back to see Little far behind. He yelled to her again to keep up, looked forward to see a yawning gorge ahead. Fear shot through him and he turned his legs to the left. It was a big one, in a few seconds, he’d be upon it and over. His jubilation instantly turned to terror.
Tom tried to pull his legs harder to the left, but almost toppled sideways. Quickly, he studied his trajectory. He wouldn’t make it. No, he could. No. He screamed.
At what seemed blinding speed, he was around it and continuing on. I have to get control, he thought. But the way ahead was now open and, except for a few ferns, he could see nothing else in his path. He turned his head around again to find Little, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“LITTLE!” Tom called.
The ground began to level out a bit now and his pace to flag. He looked ahead, judging that there was still a half-mile to the bottom. To keep his speed up, Tom began to push some with his hands. He tried to see what would be the best stopping point, finally deciding upon one which was farthest to his left and closer to the exit of this deep canyon. Then he saw his sleeping bag. It had opened and was flopped in the branches of a tree near the river. The ground continued to level out now, and after a certain point, a particular degree at which gravity, velocity and friction all concurred, he came to a stop.
Well, that was fun, Tom thought, and convenient! He paused to gather himself. The sound of the river he’d seen from above was loud now. He turned around again to look for Little and saw a shape bounding straight down at him, barking furiously. Not an angry bark, mind you, an excited bark. Excited by the romp, thrilled to find her master. She barreled at him. Tom ducked and she jumped right over him, then stopped herself and ran back, now whining, climbing over and licking his face, as if she’d not seen him in ages.
“Okay, okay!” Tom laughed, shouting to be heard above the din of the water, equally happy to see her. “What a good girl!” When she was calm, he looked back at the top of the ridge high above them, at all the trees and rocks in their way, and marveled at their good fortune.
Still a hundred feet up on the bank, he could see the trail he’d glimpsed from the top that wound around and out. Naturally, however, there was a problem. In his single-minded concentration on getting down the mountainside he’d overlooked one important fact: the trail out was on the other side of the river, and that river looked a lot bigger at the bottom than it did from the top. In fact, it was more like a rapid, as water roared, boiled, and churned tumultuously, throwing spray outwards. The mammoth waterfall and subterranean streams that emerged here fed the river with an endless supply.
Tom thought about trying to make it out on his side of the rapids, but promptly dismissed it. Not a chance. The vegetation was simply too thick. He’d have to fight for every inch. Not only that, but poison oak grew riotously over everything. The trail on the other side, though, was clear and obviously animal made. He tsked, and laughed at his turn of luck.
There was a pile of large, smooth boulders next to the torrent, which had crashed down from above sometime in the remote past. As they were close by and would offer a better view of the other side, he headed for them. Little followed. First, though, was to collect his sleeping bag from the tree, which was on the way. Having pulled it down, he checked for damage, but amazingly found only a small tear. He rolled it up and reattached it to the top of his pack. Climbing the boulders would not be especially easy, he noted, since, what started out hard-edged ages ago had been slickened nearly to a polish with water, weathering and time. Additionally, algae grew on its surface, likely making it extra slippery.
“Wait here,” Tom yelled. He then turned and began his ascent. Out from behind his granitic protection, water sprayed him eagerly, and in seconds, his clothes were wet through. They flapped behind him in the gale. If his hat hadn’t been fastened he’d h
ave lost it. But he smiled broadly, for on the other side of this rock pile was a line of smaller boulders most of the way across, which he believed they could get over. He whooped.
Looking back over to call Little, Tom discovered that she was already next to him, dense fur also doused, having climbed lesser rocks to get there. “Good girl!” he said approvingly. It looked like she had gotten over her earlier fear of water. That would make this much easier for him.
In the cacophony, he couldn’t hear her whine.
Now they had to ease down to a lower boulder, then carefully make it across. Though the rocks seemed adequately spaced, there might be some jumping involved. That could be tricky seeing as all of them were wet.
“We have to get across!” Tom shouted. Little, her eyes partly closed due to spray, was looking at the rocks and the water and seemed to understand. “I’ll go first. Stay with me!” With that, he slid down and touched foot onto a rock. Immediately his foot skidded. He lifted and repositioned. Maybe this won’t be so easy after all. Spume slashed at his face and he glanced down into the maelström, then back again.
Pushing himself off the boulder, Tom stood precariously, trying not to slip, and walked a few steps. He went a few more, then turned back to call Little. She bobbed her head, nervous, then carefully jumped down. Tom saw that her claws were gripping the rock-face strongly. He turned back to the job ahead, determined to be extra careful, to plant each step with thought and precision. The jumps were nerve wracking, and once, Tom slipped and landed painfully on his shins, skinning his palms, but he did not go over. He gulped.
In the middle, water crashed mightily against two rocks, and he lowered himself down to get a better center of balance. A big, booming breaker slapped him hard and Tom reached down just in time to dig fingernails into a tiny crevice and hold on. He turned around to make sure that Little was okay.
She wasn’t there.
With a jerk, Tom looked at the downstream rapids. His heart sank. A head pointing toward him was swiftly being carried away. She yelped, but he couldn’t hear. Without a thought, he jumped in, banging a shin on another rock. Then all the world was turmoil. He was under and being pushed down and around. Water, dirt and gravel roiled all about him. Tom swam hard trying to get to the top. His pack, though, was weighing him down. He fought to right himself, but was helpless against the powerful current. His head went under, then up, and he gulped air and water, then down again. Must get the pack off. He wrestled with it, panic in his blood. It wouldn’t release. He had to have air.
When people are afraid they stop thinking.
Tom willed himself to think. He grabbed one strap with the opposite hand and pushed. The pack swung off, hanging on by the other strap. A brief hesitation, he can’t lose it, can’t lose this pack, then it was off and ripped from his hands. It was all a matter of seconds.
Tom forced himself up and gulped air. Hard to do. Water in his face. He righted himself again and looked back. He was already a hundred yards downstream. Turning around again, Tom looked for Little, lifting his head up to try to see over the churning waves. Farther on he saw a small knob that could have been a branch being carried away. With all his might, Tom swam forward, adding his strength to the river’s. When he closed within forty yards, the water being less agitated here, he could hear Little’s yelping. She was fighting to get to the side, paddling hard as she could. She did not see Tom. He yelled, but his voice was weak. Still, he thrust his arms for her.
Her head went under. Then up again. Then under. A swell crashed over him, forcing him down. He fought back. Rose again. He did not see her. Did not see her. Then again. She’d stopped yelping. Tom screamed at the top of his voice and paddled harder than he should have been able. He closed in on her, breath coming in agonizing gasps. Now, though, he could see that she had stopped swimming and was simply being carried along.
“NO!” he yelled out.
As before, time seemed to slow and sound to disappear. The universe resolved to a pinpoint. NO!
Ten seconds later, he had her. Instinctively he grabbed and pulled, but the river was transporting them both. A fallen log ahead. They were going to hit it. Tom put out his hand and turned a bit to allow his back to absorb the impact, while holding Little with the other.
Crash! They hit. Pain shot through his arm. The surge was pushing them under. He could not let that happen. Tom turned his back to the log, while holding his aelurodon’s head out of the water. He held onto a branch.
“LITTLE!!” he yelled. Her head bobbed. Tears flowed and were quickly added to the river. Tom let the water push her against him, while he endeavored to pull them over to the side. He’d never in his life done anything so physically arduous and felt utterly spent. Still, he would not give up. Then he felt rocks under his feet. Slipped. Felt again. Bellowing like an angry Zygo, he pulled them over to the side — lifted Little out, then, struggling, himself. He pulled her higher up the rocky bank.
She lay limp. Tom, finding more strength, picked her up, her head lolling, and carried her up the side on shaky legs, then rest her on some grass. He heard gurgling. Picking her up again, he turned her upside down. Water began to flow out of her mouth. She was heavy, and he so tired, but he held on. It seemed she’d inhaled the river. Then the water stopped. He laid her back down. She wasn’t breathing.
“LITTLE!” he yelled. No response. Think. Tom put his mouth to hers and cupped the side of her muzzle. He blew, blew, blew. Tears ran down his cheeks. He blew again, again and again.
She coughed. Water in his face. Coughed again. Thrashed. Her eyes rolled down. Opened. She coughed once more. Saw him, made to get up, but he pushed her down, smiling a smile so wide his face hurt. “No. Rest,” he commanded. Little began whine like a puppy, chastised, stricken that she had done something wrong. She struggled to get up again and he allowed her to roll from her side to her chest.
“That makes us even, I guess” Tom quipped. Again, she cried like a baby, and this time Tom, his arms around her, cried too.
Chapter 22
When Tom awoke, the sun was rising. It was the next morning. He did not remember having gone to sleep. His clothes were still wet and he felt like he’d been run over by a Barstovian elephant.
Water was rushing by, reeds on the bank tossed about in the river wind, the air cool.
Little was gone.
Tom looked at the wet sand of the trail and saw tracks. They were recent, for some of them overlaid his from the previous day. Sometime during the night an animal had come and gone, right by them. The prints were small. Antelope type. He looked around again for Little; saw her tracks headed downpath. Then he stood and stretched, muscles protesting. There was a deep red and purple bruise on his shin where he’d banged it when jumping in the water. He touched it and winced. Painful. His left arm too; it had been yanked back and hurt.
Walking to the river, he bent and cupped his hands, bringing water to his mouth, and drank. Then he remembered something: his backpack, it was gone! Without it, he’d never see Julie again. He’d be lost in this wild world, all alone, for the rest of his life. The prospect of it filled him with anxiety. It was the belief, the expectation that they would be rejoined, that had given his life hope and meaning. No, he had, had to find that pack!
Suddenly cold, Tom removed his clothing. He had nothing dry to replace them with. Shafts of light were streaming through openings in the otherwise closed canopy of the riverine environment. He lifted a hand to it. Warm. Finding an overhanging branch, Tom hung his clothes and shoes to dry, discovering in the process that the bang on his shin had torn a hole in his pants. Not large, but he knew how these things were. With use, it would slowly widen. Remarkably, the seat of his pants were unscathed even though he’d used them to descend a mountainside. There were still leaves in the pockets. His shirt, though, somehow, in spite of the pack, had a sizable rip in the back.
Tom walked to the edge of the water near the downed log he’d climbed out by yesterday, and scanned the embankment on bo
th sides for his pack. Nothing. Yet, it was hard to know for sure, since these plants grew thick and could be hiding it. He tried to keep the growing dread that he’d never find it out of his mind, but failed. That pack could be anywhere. Perhaps it was snagged on an underwater limb. Maybe it was miles down river. It could be anywhere. Maybe in the tumult it opened, its contents now spread far and wide, buried in liquid muck. He shook his head.
A sound behind him made him jump. Something coming around the corner, climbing over a fallen bough. He watched apprehensively.
It was Little, his faithful companion. Fatigued as she must be, still, she had gone on her regular morning hunting jaunt and was now bringing back breakfast. It was thick-furred, muscled, and bloody; probably not easy to get. Tom bent to hug his Aelurodon, then inspected her for injuries, finding a tear on her right ear and a bleeding scratch on her muzzle. Nothing else. She dropped the animal at his feet. Deprived of the P.I., he was unable to identify it, but it was nothing he’d seen before. Well, it looked enough to get them by.
Wait a minute — crud — no way to cook it, he recalled. Tom looked again at the animal. It was an unappetizing mess.
“I’m sorry, girl, I’m not eating that raw,” Tom said. Little angled her head right and left, not comprehending. “It’s all yours, girl,” he added, gesturing with his hands. She looked down at her kill, then back at him. “Ooh,” he sighed exasperatedly. “You eat Little, I don’t want any.” He leaned down and pushed the kill back toward her, then he thought, Maybe she’s gotten used to the taste of cooked meat. Lately, she didn’t eat until he did and he always ate his food thoroughly heated. He decided it might be best to show no interest and walk away. Little sat, watching him.